Pretty
by studentnumber24601
Summary: I always let you go 'cause you got a pretty face, Cowboy. But it ain't gonna be pretty no more when I get through with it. [rated for slash and general creepiness]


[Disclaimer: still not mine. Damn it.]

**__**

[Pretty]

I step out, in your way. You stop and stare; you haven't seen me in weeks. Not since the strike ended. Uncle Wease got transferred, Morris and I went with him, and we haven't been back to Manhattan since then. But I've been thinking about you, and I'm back. I'm going to deal with you, get you off my mind, once and for all.

You stare at me, and I don't even pause, I take a swing at you and we tumble back into an alley. "Heya, Cowboy," I murmur, mostly to myself. I bet you don't even remember that I was the one who gave you that nickname. It's the nickname that made you the arrogant bastard you are now, among other things, an' you oughtta be on your knees _thanking_ me, Jack Kelly. 

Yeah, on your knees in front of me. Not that unpleasant a thought.

Christ, there's something wrong with my head. I get real turned around every time I see you, I always have. I mean, I know what I am, but I like girls as much as boys and so I don't exactly go around making it obvious that I like boys at all. Hell, Morris don't know, but he's a real knucklehead anyway. But you, _you're_ smarter than that.

I bet you never realized that's why I let you live. I coulda killed you, back when I gave you that nickname. When we was all just kids–you was twelve or thirteen, maybe, an' I was sixteen and realizing what I was and coping with it–well, _you_ was real pretty. Not old enough to be _real_ pretty, yet, but anyone who looked at you could tell you was gonna be. And you were already starting to have that attitude, the one that makes you so damned popular, the one that's always drawn me to you.

So those first few days, when we used to fight in the morning, I really coulda done a number on you. You was the first newsie who ever got away from me when I wanted to soak him, you know that? You must, I bet you bragged about it. Twelve year old Jack Kelly, able to give the toughest thug in the city the slip. Yeah, you'd have bragged about it.

But you wasn't really able to. I _let_ you, 'cause I didn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours. I shouldn't a' let you go, though. I shoulda dealt with you _before_ you got to be so gorgeous, so I'd never a' had the problems with you that I got now.

An' I never, ever should a' called you Cowboy. But there you was, with that damned hat of yours, talkin' about Santa Fe like it's some sorta paradise, every time you was in line for your papes. That's all we ever heard from you, an' so I started calling you Cowboy to make _fun_ of you, you bastard. But when everyone else started calling you that too, it wasn't an insult no more, and what the hell was the point?

But things was out of control by then. You was starting to grow up, get arrogant, and I still couldn't stand the thought of doing you no _permanent_ damage. An' then one day you actually managed to swing_ back_ at me, and it was too late. Too late for me to deal with you.

I couldn't a' known that then, but I do now. I used to hate having to see you every day, 'cause it always reminded me that I let you grow up into something I can't beat. _Couldn't_ beat, I mean. I can now. I been workin' on it, and finally decided to come back and just _do_ it. Do what I should have, back when you was just a kid.

We fall into the alley together and you scramble to your feet and try and kick my side, but I grab you leg out from under you as you do it and you hit the ground again, on your back. My right hand grabs the knife in my pocket, and you hear it click open and stare at me, almost too afraid to move. Ain't_ that_ a sweet sight.

You must a' known, then. You must a' known I'd never really hurt you, 'cause I just couldn' make myself, but the knife means I'm playin' for _keeps_ now. You start to try and move again, but I've got you cornered, I half-throw myself over you and land crouching on your chest, knife to your throat. I change my mind then, and put the blade up near your face. I'm gonna mess your face up so _bad,_ Cowboy, you ain't gonna be pretty at _all_ no more.

But when I move it, you can talk again. You don't squirm, 'cause I'd cut you if you did, but you catch my eye, and you _smirk._ God damn you, I got a knife to your throat and you _smirk_ at me? You're going to pay for everything, Jacky Boy, you're going to _pay._

"Ya know, Oscar," you say, real casual like, so I _know_ you're up to something, "I never actually said thank you for the nickname you gave me. Bet you don't even remember that, though."

Damn you, Jack Kelly. You had to go and remember. Why the hell did you have to _remember?_ You ain't never thought of me before, not at all, so what the _hell_ did you think to say it now? I hate you, Jack. I really, really hate you.

I stare down at the knife in my hand, and your goddamn pretty face. I stare at the slight trickle of blood from the point of the knife, since I pressed it in too hard. It rolls down your cheek like some kind of red tear an leaves a scarlet line after it, dark compared to your damn perfect skin.

I'm gonna do it this time, Cowboy. I swear to God, I'm gonna mess up that face if it's the last thing I do.

You look up at me. You see how serious I am. Your eyes go wide And you _smile._

*

"Hey, Cowboy," Racetrack said, not even looking up from the poker game he was running.

"Heya, Race." He greeted everyone else, sounding kind of daze. Finally, after playing a few cards, Race glanced up at him, then stared. 

"Where'd ya get the shiner, Jack?" he asked.

"Oscar," Jack said, still sounding like he couldn't believe it.

"Christ, don't tell me the Delanceys is _back," _Mush moaned.

"I don't think so. Just Oscar. It was so _weird._ Like there's something wrong with the guy's head."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I just never seen him back down from a fight so quick before in my life," Jack finished lamely, and headed upstairs before anyone could ask what he meant; go to bed and put it out of his mind.

But Jack knew he'd _never_ be able to get the feeling of Oscar Delancey's lips against his out of his head.

[AN: Straaaange pairing, but doesn't it just make sense? I know Thumbsucker Snitch has done it before, but it's still pretty unusual I have no idea why Oscar's inner monologue started running through my head, but it attacked me at work one day (and trust me, that's disturbing) and this was the end result. 

You can infer whatever you want about what Oscar and Jack did in the alley, but I really didn't mean it to be any more than one kiss. Rapefics squick me out, but I did kind of leave it open for interpretation Though I bumped it from PG up to PG-13 for one specific line. You can probably tell which.

I'd give you the usual status report on what else I'm writing, but I think I'll just put that in my profile, 'cause I'm sure everyone cares _so_ much :::cough::: As always, feedback and constructive criticism will earn my eternal gratitude, and many thanks for reading!

-24601]


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